When Trianon hurts differently

One hundred years and one day. This article was intentionally not written for June 4th. It did not intend to insult anyone, nor interfere with anyone’s commemoration. But I did want to get it out.

I was raised so that for a long time I believed I must feel pain because of Trianon. We did not talk about it all that often; thinking about it, it would get mentioned once or twice a year, and even then it was accidental, perhaps as part of some old story. But it was there, in our environment and surrounding us in our home in Transylvania, and later in Partium.

Our family is a Transylvanian middle-class family in the classic sense, with one branch from Nagyenyed and one from Nagybánya, with grandparents born before 1920. One grandfather read law, the other engineering, and the grandmothers, having completed their secondary education, looked after the household, raised the children and kept the family together. There were loads of books in both homes, they played cards, travelled, and occasionally just sighed. And they had principles. One side was strictly Catholic, the other more secular Calvinist, where on the odd occasion one or another theology teacher or pastor would make an appearance, without anyone thinking too much of it.

Yes, for a very long time I believed that Trianon must hurt

But manners were extremely important. Once, as a three or four-year-old, I got up from the table during lunch, and my grandfather’s voice caught up with me before I reached the yard. I did not ask for permission, so I had to drag myself back. He was a strict man with a quick temper. One of those two thousand or so intellectuals in South Transylvania who were dragged away by the Romanian authorities to the Zsilvasar (Tirgu Jiu) camp and kept there for several months. They had done no crime other than that they were Hungarians, and they were able to stand up for their rights.

My father was the proper son of his father. He too wanted to become a lawyer, but with his background he would have had no chance of getting admitted. He became a teacher, and at the university he was dragged through mud, but that did not extinguish the explosive organiser and cynical intellectual in him.

I simply respected my grandfather, but my father I worshipped. When he told a story, I never forgot it, when he handed me a book, it was not even a question whether I would read it.

And, he was guiding me. Sometimes with Hemingway, then Hasek or Miklos Banffy, or even Albert Wass, whatever he saw best. And me, as just a 15-year-old from Partium in Ceausescu’s Romania, I seemed to have understood why I had to read “Sword and Scythe”.

Credit: Hadtörténeti Múzeum

Yes, for a very long time I believed that Trianon must hurt.

At least, it seemed for some time that I was raised to feel that pain. But later on, I actually realised that this was not the case. That it is not the trauma of Trianon they had passed on after all.

Perhaps my grandparents, yes. They lived through Trianon, they were old enough to understand and to experience the direct consequences. They were torn away from their relatives in Budapest, they had to learn to live in Romania, to attend university in Bucharest, instead of Budapest, and to become a minority having been the majority.

My parents’ situation was different. My mother was born in 1943 in Nagybánya, again in Hungary, but by the time she would become more conscious, she was a Romanian citizen. My father, born in 1940, experienced it, yet again, differently. He was born in Romania, and lived there until the end of his life. He had only heard stories about Trianon, he did not experience it, although a mere 20 years passed after Trianon until he was born, these stories were still very vivid. However, the wrongdoing that affected him did not spring directly from the dictate, but from the melange of post-war madness, nationalism, grief, thirst for revenge, frustration, and poverty. Added to this was the still recurring memory of Trianon, though somewhat more distanced, but the Second Vienna Award much closer, and also the psychological and physical devastation of the spreading of a violent ideology. “His crime” was that he was Hungarian, but differently than it was in his father’s case.

No, I was not brought up to be obliged to feel pain

As for me, having been born almost fifty years after Trianon, this was now all just history. And history evokes respect; it might make one feel disappointed, even angry, or in a better case it can educate, but actually it does not hurt. Perhaps one can believe this is the case, however it would require someone who would intend one to believe it – either because he too was made to believe it or because he had his own selfish agenda.

No, I was not brought up to be obliged to feel pain.

I was simply raised as a Hungarian Transylvanian, who does not forget Trianon, one who does not forget what his family endured, but one that does not hate every single Romanian as a knee-jerk reaction, and does not accept every Hungarian unconditionally. I was used to seeing my grandfather caring for the cases of his Romanian clients just as much as for those of the Hungarians. And my father became a Romanian Litterateur and would hand me Rebreanu and Cosbuc as much as Bánffy or Albert Wass. I was encouraged to learn Romanian perfectly, but I was also conditioned to quite literally go weak in the knees when in 1981, at 13 years old, I saw for the first time a freely flying Hungarian flag as the train chugged with me for the first time across the border.

Is this nationalism? In a certain sense, yes. It is different from that of my parents’ and very different from that of my grandparents. It could perhaps be called a sort of open nationalism, or even some kind of national awareness with a liberal approach. Something that reflects the time and the environment where one lives, the distance in time from the historic events, the being a minority, but also by being surrounded by an utterly mad version of an insane ideology, the system of Ceausescu. When it is not the Romanians you hate but the communists, and since more amongst them are Romanians, the two blend into each other sometimes. When the reason you are not rooting against every Romanian team in every sport is not because they are Romanian, but because of the force with which the powers shove their expectation into your face (also quietly noting: in the same way as the Hungarian public service and pro-government media does today). Or when you would not necessarily fall into a trance by listening to Istvan, a kiraly (Stephen the king), but because you are only able to listen to that tape hidden away in the back rows of the bookshelf on the lowest volume to avoid being reported, then suddenly you become a convert and sometimes you hum nothing else for weeks. When there are people who expect that you would never go out with a Romanian girl, but you know perfectly well that this is not because you would not like any of them or that you would be deterred by their nationality, but because the barrier is inside you: you love in Hungarian.

And all the while Trianon clearly does not even cross your mind, and why should it – that is not your pain.

In actual fact my own attitude to the national feeling was bothering me. Especially after 1989, when as a twenty-something year old student I was immersed in the Hungarian student youth and political organisations in Romania, where once again, national exclusivity was way too often an expectation.

Romanian soldiers in Târgu Mureş in March 1989
Credit: Wikipedia

And this communal atmosphere of course also included the disappointment that at the beginning of 1990 the illusion of reconciliation disappeared in a puff of smoke within weeks, and there was the March of Marosvásárhely (Targu Mures), there was Funar, Iliescu and the other extremists.

But there was also frustration mixed with pridefulness, perceived cultural superiority and national romanticism, and feelings from the soul, with the emerging political interests of individuals and groups.

I found solace when I came across for the first time and immediately identified with this phrase by Miklós Mészöly: “I perceive my being Hungarian as a pleasant accident”.

This is when things fell into place.

And I am no less Hungarian when Trianon does not hurt or not the way it is expected to

It pleases me. I am not more nor less just on account of being Hungarian, but that is fine just like that – and there are numerous reasons I can list for this. From Nagyenyed (Aiud) and Nagybánya (Baia Mare) through Szatmárnémeti (Satu Mare) and Temesvár (Timisoara) to Budapest, from Kányádi to Esterházy, from Bartók to LGT.

But it is an accident, and it does not oblige. I am no less Hungarian if I don’t want to holiday in Székelyföld (Szeklerland) but on the Italian riviera, if I believe that any democrat is better than a Hungarian despot, if I believe in the EU and not in the nation state, if I do not stand up when I hear “Nélküled” (Without you) as I find it awful and especially do not consider it to be an anthem.

And I am no less Hungarian when Trianon does not hurt or not the way it is expected to. As yes, hurt it does. But I am not lamenting the territory and the geographical or political grandeur, but the people and fates. Just like the ones affected by the holocaust, the victims and refugees of 56, or all of those who were snitched on by Kádár’s agents and were crippled by their regime.

Credit: Reviczky Zsolt

What’s more – my real Trianon is when, with the greatest love, I am trying to convince my only child not to come back from his British university to László Kövér’s ideological shambles, not to the darkness of the CÖF (Civil Cooperation Forum), not to the country where protesters are beaten apart, then the black clad groups with their distorted faces are permitted to wreak havoc in Deak square, while the Roma of Gyöngyös become the subjects of political shooting galleries.

If something hurts, then it’s this.

This article was intentionally not written for June 4th. It did not intend to insult anyone, nor interfere with anyone’s commemoration. Everyone must interpret Trianon for themselves. My father and my grandfathers would be, I am sure, of different opinions, but I believe they would understand me.

Death of the office

In the spring of 1822 an employee in one of the world’s first offices – that of the East India Company in London – sat down to write a letter to a friend. If the man was excited to be working in a building that was revolutionary, or thrilled to be part of a novel institution which would transform the world in the centuries that followed, he showed little sign of it. “You don’t know how wearisome it is”, wrote Charles Lamb, “to breathe the air of four pent walls, without relief, day after day, all the golden hours of the day between ten and four.” His letter grew ever-less enthusiastic, as he wished for “a few years between the grave and the desk”. No matter, he concluded, “they are the same.”

The world that Lamb wrote from is now long gone. The infamous East India Company collapsed in ignominy in the 1850s. Its most famous legacy, British colonial rule in India, disintegrated a century later. But his letter resonates today, because, while other empires have fallen, the empire of the office has triumphed over modern professional life.

The dimensions of this empire are awesome. Its population runs into hundreds of millions, drawn from every nation on Earth. It dominates the skylines of our cities – their tallest buildings are no longer cathedrals or temples but multi-storey vats filled with workers. It delineates much of our lives. If you are a hardworking citizen of this empire you will spend more waking hours with the irritating colleague to your left whose spare shoes invade your footwell than with your husband or wife, lover or children.

Or rather you used to. This spring, almost overnight, the world’s offices emptied. In New York and Paris, in Madrid and Milan, they ready themselves for commuters who never come. Empty lifts slide up and down announcing floor numbers to empty vestibules; water coolers hum and gurgle, cooling water that no one will drink. For the moment, office life is over.

Getting work done has never really been the point of offices

Even before coronavirus struck, the reign of the office had started to look a little shaky. A combination of rising rents, the digital revolution and increased demands for flexible working meant its population was slowly emigrating to different milieux. More than half of the Ameri­can workforce already worked remotely, at least some of the time. Across the world, home working had been rising steadily for a decade. Pundits predicted that it would increase further. No one imagined that a dramatic spike would come so soon.

It’s too early to say whether the office is done for. As with any sudden loss, many of us find our judgment blurred by conflicting emotions. Relief at freedom from the daily commute and pleasure at turning one’s back on what Philip Larkin called “the toad work” are tinged with regret and nostalgia, as we prepare for another shapeless day of wfh in jogging bottoms.

But we shouldn’t let sentimentality cloud us. Offices have always been profoundly flawed spaces. Those of the East India Company, among the world’s first, were built more for bombast than bureaucracy. They were sermons in stone, and the solidity of every marble step, the elegance of every Palladian pillar, were intended to speak volumes about the profitability and smooth functioning within. This was nonsense, of course. Created to ensure efficiency, offices immediately institutionalised idleness. A genteel arms race arose as managers tried to make their minions work, and the minions tried their damnedest to avoid it. East India House, in which Lamb worked, could give call centres a run for their money in the art of micro-managing. At the start of the 19th century, the company introduced an attendance book for employees to sign when they arrived, when they left and every 15 minutes in between. Not that it proved much use. “It annoys Dodwell amazingly,” wrote Lamb. “He sometimes has to sign six or seven times while he is reading the newspaper.”

The first offices belonged to governments or quasi-government bodies like the East India Company. Running a country, let alone an empire, requires a lot of paper to be pushed and governing proved simpler when all those functionaries were in one place. But it was the Industrial Revolution that really changed things. Coal, steel and steam started to spin the wheels of the English textile industry ever faster and railways unspooled across the countryside. The new steam trains shuttled ever more workers into the cities, where they plumped themselves behind desks in order to practise ancillary professions – finance, law, retail – that flourished on the back of heavy industry. The rhythms of the countryside were left behind. Work, which had once been patchwork, piecemeal and often weather dependent, became the fabric of life itself.

The most transformatory aspect of offices was less the buildings themselves than the sheer amount of time we spent in them. This would have seemed alien to many earlier societies. Mary Beard, professor of classics at Cambridge University, notes that elite Romans strived to switch off as much as possible. “Our division between leisure and work is reversed in the Roman world. What we mostly do is work and, when we’re not working, we’re at leisure.” In Rome it was the other way round for the elite: “The normal state of play is otium, it’s leisure. And sometimes, you’re not at leisure, you’re doing business, which is negotium.” Though the English word “business” has an inbuilt aura of action and industry, the Latin neg-otium – literally “not leisure” – has an almost grudging sense of pleasure denied.

Sitting isn’t quite the new smoking, but it certainly won’t do you any good

Romans didn’t have to go to a special place to work. Their tablets and styluses were every bit as portable as our own, a feature that elite Romans took full advantage of. Two thousand years ago Pliny the Younger, an author and lawyer, wrote a letter to his friend Tacitus. He had found, he said, a splendid new method of working. Instead of going about his business at a desk, he had decided that day to combine it with a boar hunt. He sat next to his nets “not with boar spear or javelin, but pencil and tablet, by my side”. After expanding on the pleasure of his method for some time, Pliny (the office boar) concluded that this was a remarkably productive way to work since “the mind is stirred and quickened into activity by brisk bodily exercise”. He concluded by advising Tacitus, “whenever you hunt, to take your tablets along with you”.

Few office workers have been indulged to this extent. In the 20th century, the people who had once designed factories turned their attention to offices. The moving parts in these machines were humans and their output merely paper but, it was reasoned, the same principles surely applied. In America teams armed with stopwatches, and a firm belief that a well-oiled office was a wonderful thing, recorded how long each task took. Anything that added extra tick-tocks of time received a cross in their recommendations. Frederick Winslow Taylor, who pioneered time-and-motion studies in the 1890s, concluded that workers functioned best when seated at lines of desks with flat tops, as though in a school-­examination hall. The fact that other studies subsequently found that workers largely work best when being observed for studies on how well they work mattered not a jot. The open-plan office had been born.

When time-and-motion studies examine offices today, their results can be dispiriting. Office-work takes up not merely the bulk of our time but the best part of it, the hours when we are alert and alive. Home, and its occupants, has the husk. Most managers spend at least 20 hours a week in meetings, according to a study by Bain & Company in 2014. Over the course of a lifetime that amounts to nearly five full years. Many of these meetings, in wistful retrospect, might have profitably been skipped.

But getting work done has never really been the point of offices. In 2004 Corinne Maier, a French psychoanalyst who at the time was working at edf, the French electrical giant, published a book called “Bonjour paresse”, or “Hello Laziness”. The critique of corporate culture became an instant international bestseller. Maier argues that, far from aiding efficiency, offices are “useless” since workers “lose a lot of time going to meetings and speaking the jargon and doing in fact very little work”. She found that she could “do everything I had to do in just two hours in the morning”. Thereafter she busied herself with her own projects, which included writing an academic thesis and several books. “I was very efficient,” she says, cheerfully. edf, evidently considering that this was not the sort of efficiency it had in mind, sent her off to a disciplinary hearing.

Now that we are all working from home, amid the children, the toast crumbs and the laundry, we are realising that the pretence of an orderly life at the office is also a liberation

Maier might have become a bestseller but on the whole writing about offices is not – at least in the West – an instant route to stardom. Lamb’s letters are typical. His correspondent for that first, springtime letter was William Wordsworth, the great Romantic poet, who filled his days with walks in the Lake District and his pages with dancing daffodils. Lamb, by contrast, filled his days in London’s financial district and his pages with the price of tea. Though Lamb’s is the life we lead, Wordsworth is far better remembered.

It’s not just poetry but fiction that tends to ignore the office (China, where top-selling novelists write books with such thrilling titles as “The Civil Servant’s Notebook”, is a rare exception). Though great writers have tackled the subject, including Balzac, Dickens, Flaubert, Melville and Kafka, they do so more in satire than celebration. Joshua Ferris, an American novelist, won literary plaudits for “Then We Came to the End”, a novel that sustained a narrative in the first-person plural to demonstrate the obliteration of individual character by corporate identity. But more often than not the office, which is ever present in our life, is a great absence in literature.

Poets have been even more scathing. John Betjeman wished for bombs to fall and “blow to smithereens/Those air-conditioned, bright canteens”. In “The Waste Land”, T.S. Eliot (who had once worked in Lloyds Bank) saw the crowds of commuters crossing London Bridge in terms of Dante’s vision of hell: “I had not thought death had undone so many.” Walt Whitman sneered at clerks as men “of minute leg, chalky face and hollow chest”.

There is more than a dash of superiority in such attacks, but there are good reasons to be critical of offices. Many of the more recent examples are aesthetic embarrassments. Where Ancient Rome had the Colosseum, Renaissance Florence had Brunelleschi’s dome and Byzantium had the Hagia Sophia, we have endless, interchangeable glass-and-steel boxes. This, says Thomas Heatherwick, a British designer, is because the design of offices – indeed all public buildings – has been “lazy”. In the past, he says, workplaces “could get away with just being a desk”, much as shops could get away with “just being somewhere which had stacks of socks or stacks of underpants”. The digital revolution means that such complacency risks redundancy. Now, says Heatherwick, there has to be good reason for you to leave your home, otherwise “why would you go?” Time for the office to sharpen up.

Like a dad at the disco, the office has been trying to do this for a while. Daring architects have broken the mould to construct buildings in the shape of gherkins, cheese graters and walkie talkies – and that’s just in London. To change the stale spaces inside, startups introduced ping-pong tables and ball pits (“dumb fun”, sniffs Heatherwick). Then they offered free food in an attempt to keep workers perpetually in their embrace. Who needs to go home for dinner, when your company will provide you with a tastier one than the pot noodle waiting in your cupboard? And then came WeWork, a sub-letting company that somehow drew cult-like adulation by giving out free biscuits and beer. It helped that its chief executive was Adam Neumann, a man who looks like Christ reimagined by Mattel, with a Ken-like sweep of hair, dazzling white teeth and a firm belief in his power to save us from the hell of offices without cucumber water and succulents. For a while everyone believed in Neumann. Until, suddenly, they didn’t. Last year, WeWork’s valuation fell to a sixth of the $47bn that had once been mooted and Neumann resigned. Offices, of course, needed to be more than a workplace with superior snacks. Heatherwick reckons they should be inspiring “temples” in which to toil, places of beauty that we can admire, even love. It is telling that though his company does have offices, he brands his practice a “studio”. The word office, says Heatherwick, “brought me down”.

Like a dad at the disco, the office has been trying to do this for a while

Offices can be not just offensive to the eye but harmful to the body. Sitting isn’t quite the new smoking, but it certainly won’t do you any good. A life lived on one’s bottom increases the risk of heart disease, type-2 diabetes, some cancers and all manner of back problems. Offices also entrench social inequalities. The top dog is more likely to hire in his own image, perpetuating male privilege. In 2018 there were more men called Steve than there were women among the chief executives of ftse 100 companies. Offices even tend to be more physically unpleasant places for women than for men: as a recent study showed, the ambient air temperature is generally set to suit “the metabolic rates of a 154-pound, 40-year-old man” (probably called Steve). Men are just fine; women freeze.

The office has further-reaching patriarchal ploys up its sleeve. Chief among these is its response to children. Or rather lack of it. For most of history, workplaces ignored children entirely (the run on deposits precipitated by the arrival of the Banks twins at their father’s place of work in “Mary Poppins” shows the dire consequences of offspring turning up at the office). The Angel in the House, as Victorians fondly referred to their wives, was assumed to handle all that. In the 20th century the angel lost her wings as women entered the workplace. Offices responded to this momentous social change by making no concessions at all. As a result, working women had to straddle the gap between angel and executive, a cause of immense and continuing stress. Even more tryingly, they had to endure endless stock photos of women in suits holding babies and tearing out their hair. A minor branch of the publishing industry sprang up offering books with querulous titles such as “I Don’t Know How She Does It”.

The office’s ongoing indifference to children has resulted in the social phenomenon that Emily Oster, professor of economics at Brown University and author of “Cribsheet”, a data-led guide to raising kids, calls “secret parenting”. Parents strive to keep up the old pretence that children don’t exist, deploying techniques that range from not putting up pictures of one’s children at work, to pretending that they themselves are ill so that they can care for genuinely sick infants lest, says Oster, people “think [they’re] prioritising parenting”. As a working parent, she says, “someone is always more or less running around in the background”.

Despite the commute and the colleagues, the sitting and the stale meetings, offices bring many of us something else too: joy. Lucy Kellaway, who wrote a long-running column in the Financial Times on the absurdities of office life, talks of the “great artificiality” we embrace the moment that we step into an office. “We pretend that our clothes are always in order and that we are entirely professional and impersonal. Whereas probably in our heads and definitely in our homes there is an awful lot of unravelling and farting going on.”

For it was that “dead timber of a desk that makes me live.”

And what a wonderful thing that artifice can be. Now that we are all working from home, amid the children, the toast crumbs and the laundry, we are realising that the pretence of an orderly life at the office is also a liberation. It allows each day to have its own architecture, its rhythms of departure and arrival. Putting on a perfectly ironed silk shirt or a crisp suit and leaving the house may be contrived but it is also, says Kellaway, “one of the beauties of working life…It allows us to be a different person. And we’re all so fed up with who we are, the opportunity to be someone else, someone a little bit more impressive, is just so tempting.” When such an escape is denied us, that allure may only grow.

And so, for all the threat faced by the office, there is also cause for optimism about its future. These days the “hyper-physical …is so cherished,” notes Heatherwick. Sales of records are at their highest in years, book covers have rarely looked so beautiful. Though many of us might have been loth to admit it until this spring, all those desks and all those people, all that bustle and time-wasting, have their benefits.

Humans need offices. Online encounters may be keeping us alive as social beings right now, but work-related video meetings are too often transactional, awkward and unappealing. After the initial joy of peering into each other’s houses on Zoom, we are confronted with people’s heads looming even closer than we see them across the desk at work, and we gaze in horror – half of it self-awareness that we, too, must look awful – at thinning hair and double chins. We become freakish specimens rather than people. No Skype chat can replicate what Heatherwick calls the “chemistry of the unexpected” that you get in person. Offices may not fill the pages of poetry anthologies but, says Kellaway, they “can be as moving as anywhere on Earth. Because what moves us is not sitting at our computer, it’s the relationship that we have with people.”

For all his grumbling, Charles Lamb believed something similar too. When Wordsworth seems to have grown a trifle too smug about the sublime joys of the natural world, Lamb snapped back. “I don’t much care if I never see a mountain in my life.” But he did care for the city and he certainly loved offices. All his complaints were, he wrote, mere “lovers’ quarrels”. Above all, he loved his desk. For it was that “dead timber of a desk that makes me live.”